Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body (16 page)

‘What did you ever do to him?’ asked Charles. ‘No. Don’t turn your head away. Out with it!’

‘Okay. It’s like this. When I was doing PR for a swimwear company, I invited the press to the launch of the new line. For swimwear you get male reporters as well as female for
obvious reasons. He was one of them. I caught him hiding behind a screen in the dressing rooms, holding a camera over the top and taking pictures of the models undressing. I knocked back the screen
and got one of my own photographers to snap him. I sent the photo with a complaint to his editor. He was on the
Express
at the time and lost his job.’

‘Was he supposed to take pictures like that?’ asked Toni.

‘No, it was for his own salacious amusement. He had a good photographer in the audience whose job was to get some pretty pictures for the paper’s colour supplement. This could ruin
me.’

‘He seems like a perv,’ said Toni. ‘I know. Let’s get something on him.’

‘How?’

‘We’re detectives, aren’t we?’ said Toni eagerly. ‘Give me a few days in London, Agatha.’

‘He’d recognize you,’ said Agatha.

‘I could go in disguise.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Charles.

‘But you’re not a detective!’ exclaimed Toni.

‘I’m hurt. His photo’s on the article. I’ll recognize him. Anyway, I know more about the underside of London than can be dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio.’

‘Why are you calling her Horatio?’ asked Agatha.

Charles went up to London on the following day, left his bag at his club and went to a less salubrious club in Beecham Place. The club for gentlemen was actually a cross
between a hard-drinking club and a brothel.

He asked the barman if his friend, Tuppy, had been in.‘He usually calls in around now,’ said the barman. Charles ordered a drink and waited. After ten minutes, Lord Patrick Dinovan,
who was known to his friends as Tuppy, came in. He was a small grey man with a crumpled face. Charles always thought that Tuppy had the most forgettable appearance of anyone he knew.

He hailed Charles with delight. ‘Take a pew, Tuppy,’ said Charles. ‘I want you to do something criminal for me.’

‘Why not do it yourself?’

‘I might be recognized.’

‘What’s in it for me?’

‘Free shooting. The pheasant season will be here before you know it.’

Dan Palmer was drinking alone in the Horse Tavern, a riverside pub frequented by the staff of the
Cable.
He had a bad reputation of turning nasty after a few drinks and
so his colleagues were giving him a wide berth. At last the fact that no one wanted to speak to him seeped into his drunken brain and with a snarl he tossed down his drink and walked outside. He
had only lurched a few steps when he bumped into a small man.

‘I say, I am sorry,’ said the man. ‘Let me make it up to you. Drink?’

‘Not in there,’ said Dan, jerking a thumb back at the pub.

‘I’ve a room in a hotel near here and a good bottle of malt if you care to join me,’ said Tuppy.

Dan’s little eyes narrowed into slits. ‘Not gay, are you?’

‘Bite your tongue. Oh, forget it.’

But Dan thought of the free drink. He longed for more. ‘Okay,’ he said. What’s your name?’

‘John Danver.’

‘Lead on.’

The hotel was small but expensive looking. Dan sank down in an armchair in Tuppy’s suite and gratefully accepted a large glass of malt.

‘You’re that famous reporter, Dan Palmer, aren’t you?’ asked Tuppy.

‘That’s me.’

‘Tell me some of your best stories. I’m fascinated.’

Dan almost forgot to drink in his eagerness to brag. When he had finished, Tuppy said, ‘Is that detective female, Raisin, really that stupid?’

Dan made to tap the side of his nose but drunkenly stuck his finger in his eye by mistake. ‘Ouch!’ he yelped. ‘Oh, her, Aggie Raisin. No, that one’s as cunning as a
fox.’

‘So why wreck her reputation?’

‘I had an old score to pay back. Did that hatchet job pretty nicely, hey? There’s nothing in there she can sue me about.’

‘So she really is good?’

‘Sure she is. That’s what makes it funnier.’

‘I don’t understand . . . Your glass is empty, let me top it up. Do you mean if one of you reporters on the
Cable
wants revenge, they can write a piece to get it?’

‘Only if they’re as clever as me.’

‘So your editor never guessed you were paying off an old score?’

‘Him? He wouldn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground.’

‘He must be pretty good at his job to become editor, don’t you think?’

‘Hopeless. I could do the job better with both hands tied behind my back. He married the proprietor’s niece. Shee! Thash how he got the post. You have to be as shmart as me to keep
on top. Ish a jungle out there. Jungle.’

Dan rambled on and then suddenly fell asleep.

Tuppy removed the whisky glass from his hand. He switched off the powerful little tape recorder he had hidden behind a bowl of flowers on the table between them.

He made his way downstairs, pulling a baseball cap with a long peak out of his pocket and jamming it down on his head so that the peak shielded his face. He had sent a messenger to book the room
under the name of Dan Palmer and pay cash in advance, plus a deposit. The foyer was still busy with a party of guests who had just entered. When he had arrived with Dan, the desk clerk had been on
the phone and had not taken any particular notice of either Tuppy or Dan, and Tuppy had taken the precaution of keeping his room key with him.

Dan awoke at six in the morning with a blinding hangover. He struggled to his feet and made his way downstairs and out into the street and hailed a taxi to take him to his digs, thanking his
stars it was his day off.

He set out for the office on the following day, stopping at the local newsagent’s to buy a copy of the
Cable. A
square box, outlined in black and with the headline apology, caught
his eye.

He read, ‘The
Cable
offers a full and complete apology to private detective Miss Agatha Raisin of the Raisin Detective Agency in Mircester over a recently published and misleading
article, and wishes to assure readers that Miss Raisin is one of the country’s foremost private detectives.’

What on earth . . .? He hailed a cab, got to the office and rushed up to the editorial floor, to be met by the editor’s secretary. ‘Mr Dixon would like a word with you.’

He trailed after her to the editor’s office. Dixon was a thickset man with thinning hair and a pugnacious face. His office was flooded with the sunlight that was sparkling on the waters of
the Thames outside the window.

‘Listen to this,’ said Dixon and switched on a tape recorder on his desk.

Dan listened in horror to that conversation he had with that man who had called himself John Danver.

‘I was set up,’ he gasped.

‘We were lucky to get away with only an apology. That Raisin woman could have sued our socks off. Now, in the past we’ve allowed you to write the occasional feature, but I’ve
checked back on your work. Your few features always seem to skim this side of libellous. You can go and clear your desk. You’re finished.’

‘But . . .’

‘Do you want me to call security?’

Dan went back to the hotel, only to be told that he had booked the room himself. He had stopped off on the way to have several drinks. He was told firmly that the room had been
booked under his name and they could not tell him anything further. They would pay his deposit back.

Dan hated Agatha Raisin as he had never hated anyone before.

Charles regretted having offered Tuppy free shooting. After all, he depended on the pheasant season to raise money for his estate. Also, he had paid Tuppy for the hotel room
and the malt whisky.

He interrupted Agatha’s thanks by saying, ‘I’m afraid it cost a lot of money – bribes and things.’

‘How much?’

‘Five thousand pounds.’

‘Good heavens! Oh, well.’ Agatha fished out her cheque book, wrote him out a cheque for the amount and handed it over. ‘Are you staying at my place?’

‘No, got things to do, people to see.’ Charles felt a bit grubby, but money was money and estates like his just seemed to drink it up. ‘Tell you what, I’ll take you to
lunch to celebrate.’

‘Can’t,’ said Agatha. ‘Got an important date.’

‘You look shifty. Who with?’

‘Mind your own business.’

Agatha’s lunch date was in Evesham with Simon Black. Because of the recession, Evesham looked more depressed than ever. They met in a Thai restaurant in the High
Street.

When they had ordered, Agatha asked, ‘How are you getting on?’

‘Slowly You see,’ said Simon, ‘in a village like Odley Cruesis, unless you were born there, you’ll always be an outsider. They’re a secretive lot. The vicar loves
his church more than God or his wife. I’ve admired the perpendicular north doorway for the umpteenth time, not to mention the Norman pulpit.’

‘How are you getting on with May Dinwoody?’

‘Pretty well. But she won’t talk about John Sunday and neither will any of the other villagers. They’re nice to me because I’m the vicar’s pet. They talk about the
weather and the crops mostly. I was in the store and I raised the subject of Sunday’s murder. There was a little silence and then they began to talk about something else. Sometimes I think
they could all have been in on it.

‘I’ve been encouraging May to have some wine with her supper to see if that loosens her tongue.’

‘What about Penelope Timson?’ asked Agatha. ‘Anything there?’

‘She is one nervous and flustered lady. She keeps hugging me, although it feels like groping, and says I am the sort of son she would like to have.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Agatha. ‘Give it another week and then clear out.’

That evening, Simon urged May to take a third glass of wine but she shook her head. ‘I’ve had enough. I don’t want to turn into a drunk. Oh, I quite forgot.
The vicar wants you to report to the vicarage at nine in the morning. He thinks it’s time you started helping with the parish duties.’

‘But it’s not as if I’m employed by the parish,’ protested Simon.

‘Oh, but it’s not healthy for a young man of your age to do nothing. And you have shown such an interest in the church – so rare these days. You will notice that we do not have
many young people in the village. We have children but not teenagers.’

Probably got out of the damn place as soon as they could, thought Simon. Aloud, he asked, ‘What am I supposed to be doing?’

‘I think driving someone somewhere.’

When Simon rang the bell at the vicarage next morning, the vicar hailed him cheerily. ‘Just the fellow! Mr and Mrs Summers and Mr and Mrs Beagle will be here shortly.
They want to take a shopping trip to Cheltenham.’

‘I don’t think for a minute they’ll all fit into my car,’ said Simon.

‘You can drive my people carrier. It’s big enough for all of you. Ah, here they come. You might like to take them for a modest meal and I will refund you.’

The vicar tenderly helped the couples into the vehicle. The day was sunny and warm but they all seemed to be well wrapped up.

‘Lovely day,’ said Simon.

Silence.

‘Why don’t we all sing?’ suggested Simon, unnerved by the brooding atmosphere.

‘Shut up and drive,’ growled Fred Summer, ‘and keep your eyes on the road.’

It seemed to take ages to reach Cheltenham. Elderly bladders meant frequent stops.

Cheltenham was the site of a monastery as early as 803. Alfred the Great admired the peace of the place, but the town’s sudden rise began in the eighteenth century with the discovery of
the famous spa waters. People like Handel and Samuel Johnson flocked to the town to take the restorative cure.

Simon drove into the Evesham Road car park. He had to let his elderly cargo out before he parked because the parking places there were so small that every vehicle seemed to have just squeezed
its way in.

He caught up with the two couples as they shuffled their way out of the car park. ‘Here, you,’ said Fred. ‘You ain’t coming with us. Meet us back here at five
o’clock.’

‘But I’m supposed to take you to lunch,’ said Simon.

‘Us’ll get our own lunch and charge the vicar. Shove off.’

Simon glanced at his watch. It was only half past ten in the morning. Perhaps Toni could join him. He phoned her mobile.

‘Toni,’ he began eagerly. ‘Simon here.’

‘Oh, hello, Lucy,’ said Toni brightly. ‘I’m in the office.’

‘I’m stuck in Cheltenham. If you can get away for lunch, I’ll meet you at that pasta place on the Parade at one.’

‘I’ll try. Got to go.’

After he had rung off, Simon realized he wasn’t much of a detective. Anyone from the village was surely a suspect. He should have followed his passengers and seen what they were up to.
They walked so slowly, they couldn’t possibly have got far. But as he raced down the slope into the centre of the town, he could not see them.

He stopped his search when he realized how idiotic he was being. His four passengers had been inside the vicarage drawing room when the murder had been committed.

He passed a pleasant time looking around the shops and then made his way to the restaurant on the Parade where he hoped to meet Toni. He managed to secure a table outside, ordered a glass of
lager and said he would order the meal when his friend arrived.

Fifteen minutes later, he had just decided she would not be able to come when he saw her bright golden hair and slim figure heading towards him through the crowd.

‘Hi!’ said Toni. ‘What are you doing in Cheltenham? I thought you were stuck in that village looking for suspects.’

‘I got stuck with running four of the crinklies here for the day.’

‘Which four?’

‘The Summers and the Beagles.’

Toni leapt to her feet, nearly colliding with the hovering waiter. ‘You idiot!’ she said. ‘They know what I look like. Your cover’ll be blown if they see you here with
me.’ And she was off and running.

Simon watched miserably as her fair head bobbed up and down as she ran through the crowd and then disappeared from view. Simon gloomily ordered a toasted cheese baguette. He felt every bit the
idiot Toni had called him. He found her very attractive, but if he was going to make any success of this job, he’d better keep his mind strictly on it until he found out something useful. The
only person in the village who seemed prepared to gossip to him was May Dinwoody The likeliest subject was Tilly Glossop. She had had an affair, as far as anyone knew, with Sunday. He had a
photograph of her in a compromising position with the mayor. Nothing of her affair with the mayor had leaked into the press.